


Of Oranges and Lard

by yuletide_archivist



Category: The Invisible Man (TV 2000)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-21
Updated: 2003-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1623746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby and Darien have a long day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Oranges and Lard

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tiriel

 

 

Of Oranges and Lard  
Fandom: Invisible Man  
Warning: Do not use the Spanish included unless you want your mouth washed out with soap. 

People who don't live in California fail to realize how cold it can get in January. Sure, it's technically colder in other locations, but that doesn't mean that 34 degrees Fahrenheit isn't damn cold when you're out in the middle of nowhere at an hour most sane people are still asleep. Then again, given half a chance, Darien Fawkes mused to himself, most sane people would stay in bed past noon if they could. 

Hell, he'd wanted to stay in bed this morning. He'd been woken up by a phone call from Eberts in the middle of one of those damned elusive dreams. The kind where your body is tingling in all the right areas and you really wish you weren't alone in bed. Eberts' wake-up call did a lot to dampen those feelings, but Darien couldn't shake the dream. He couldn't remember it exactly. But he could still feel the fingers glide down his back. 

"Tell me again why we're here," Darien said while scratching the back of his head. He stood next to his partner Robert "Bobby" Hobbes at the edge of an orange grove. His bed and the dream beckoned, but if he was forced to be here, he might as well get to work. 

Hobbes looked at Darien, then at the grove, then at Darien. "The Fat Man has scurvy?" Darien blinked at his partner, his mouth agape. Hobbes turned to him. "Yes, I know what scurvy is." 

Darien shrugged and headed towards a little shack that sat at the border between the two-lane road behind them and the trees ahead of them. "Just tell me this grove is run by Chrysalis and the oranges are full of a chemical that will evolve society? Or, better yet, it's run by Arnaud, and the oranges contain a chemical that will turn everyone invisible!" 

"I don't know my friend. You know how cagey the Fat Man was yesterday when he told us the Department of Agriculture asked for us." 

The shack had a small propane heater, which was turned on full blast to warm the huddled masses yearning to... pick oranges. A Latino man sitting on a stool next to the heater tipped his worn cowboy hat back on his head and said, "Que carajo quieres?" 

Hobbes raised his eyebrows, sniffed once, and said, "Chingate tu madre, cabron!" 

Everyone turned towards Hobbes and Darien. The man on the stool folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the back wall of the shack, squinting his eyes. Darien had become quite accustomed to that look. Being partners with Bobby Hobbes meant that he had the opportunity to see that look on almost every mission, and sometimes when they were just hanging out. The look said the guy hadn't decided if it was worth the effort to beat Hobbes into a bloody pulp or not. He'd even given Hobbes that look once or twice. But that was for a much different reason. 

Darien started to take a step forward to diffuse the situation. More than anyone, he knew Hobbes could fend for himself, it just didn't make sense to wreck the assignment before it even started. To his surprise, the guy started to chuckle. Then to laugh. 

"This is new," Darien said quietly to Hobbes. "What did you say to him?" 

Hobbes smiled to the guys in the shack and sauntered closed to the heater. "You don't want to know, Fawkes." 

"Robert Hobbes and Darien Fawkes," the man on the stool said more than asked. "We have been waiting for you." 

"Really?" Darien asked, disbelief clearly written on his face. 

The man shrugged his shoulders. "Well, that, and it's as cold as an apretada out there." The guys all laughed at that, including Hobbes. Suddenly Darien wished he had taken Spanish in school instead of Latin. "We should get started however." 

"Yeah, about that," said Darien. He watched the other guys pick up bags from the corner and trudge out towards the trees. "What exactly is our assignment?" He asked in a sotto voice. 

The man looked around as if he were making sure it was safe to talk. "Your assignment, should you choose to accept it, is to remove as many oranges from the trees as you can until I say stop." He walked over to the bags and picked two for the agents. 

"Can I ask one more question? What's your name?" Darien asked. He figured if he was forced into manual labor, he may as well have a name to hang the blame on since he still didn't know the Official's.   
 

* * *

  


Five hours later, Darien had a stiff neck and sore arms. The man Darien had come to call Stool Guy called a half-hour lunch break, so he and Hobbes were sitting in their van for the simple reason that the seats were marginally softer than the dirt outside. 

Darien beat his head against the back of his seat. The dream was taunting him, and after a morning of monotonous picking, his mind wasn't letting it go. If he didn't start thinking about something else, Hobbes was likely to catch him staring into space, drooling... Again. 

"What's the matter Fawkes?" Hobbes said, his eyes the only thing turned towards his partner. Another bite of pastrami on rye went down his throat before he asked his next question. "Your snake is all right, right?" 

Darien didn't move. Didn't even breath. He knew Hobbes meant his tattoo. That didn't mean that his lower-half didn't stir a bit. Crap. "I'm fine." 

"You sure? 'Cause I can get us out of here, and to the Keeper." Hobbes' hand reached for the keys hanging from the ignition. "Give me the word. We'll blow this pop stand." 

A strangled groan escaped Darien's lips. "I'm fine. Could you just not say blow, or pop, or snake?" 

"Oh, hohhoh. Do we have a little problem?" Hobbes asked, a smirk spreading across his face. 

Darien hated that smirk sometimes. Usually when it was aimed at him. "I'd like to point out that my problem is far from little." 

Hobbes had his mouth open to make another comment, but was thankfully prevented by a knock on the driver's side window. "Vamanos," Stool Guy said, walking away before Hobbes could roll down the window. The chilly blast of air was enough to convince the two of them to make the Official pay for this assignment.   
 

* * *

  


Eberts pushed up the sleeves of his Yakuta so he could roll the sushi. The bamboo mat had not been behaving, and the Official liked nothing less than a sloppy sushi roll. Well, maybe Hobbes and Darien when they were right. And, Chrysalis when they got away with something. But, sloppy sushi was most definitely on the list. 

The Official was on the phone at the other end of the office. "Uhhuh. I see," he said to the person at the other end of the line. "Did they make their quota?" 

The chair creaked in protestation as the Official leaned back. "That's good to know. And the others?" After a few more grunts of affirmation the Official asked, "so, same time next week? Good. I expect to see a check for their work by Friday." More grunts and chair squeaks followed. "Of course. I'm glad we could work this out too. Good bye." 

Eberts looked over at his boss after having finished rolling the sushi tight enough to make an Iron Chef weep and gnash his teeth. "If the agents find out you're renting them out as manual labor..." 

"They won't find out, will they?" The Official's voice lowered to a menacing growl. "And if they do? How else do they expect to get an end-of-the-year bonus?" Eberts shrugged in response, so the Official continued, "ever since the government started cutting back, I've had to come up with new ways to stay solvent. The agents should be happy that they'll be getting a bonus." 

Eberts opened his mouth and closed it again. Instead of responding, he cut the sushi, arranged it on a plate, and placed it before his boss.   
 

* * *

  


Darien pushed his front door open with all of his might. It opened about a third of the way and then just sat there, taunting him. Darien wanted to kick the door, but that would have taken too much energy. Instead, he rested his head against it and walked forward, pushing the door open slowly. 

Hobbes walked behind his partner, with a little more energy and spring in his step. He closed the door behind them, tossing his jacket on the kitchen counter before grabbing two beers from the fridge. "You know what your problem is, my friend?" 

"No, but I know you'll tell me," Darien said while fighting with the beer cap. 

"Here. Gimme." Hobbes grabbed the bottle from Darien's hands, used the bottle opened he'd found on the fridge, and handed it back to his partner before stretching out on the couch. "Your problem, Fawkes, is that you have never done a lot of manual labor." 

Darien nearly spit out his beer. "Hello? Felon." 

"And what did you do in the Joint?" 

"Well, I read some Sartre. 'There's no more hope--but it's still "before." We haven't yet begun to suffer.'" 

Hobbes nodded. "I see. So, in other words, you sat in your cell and brooded." 

Darien flopped onto the couch next to Hobbes. He opened his mouth, then closed it, nodding mutely. Even arguing seemed like too much effort today. 

"While tracking a terrorist Inuit cell, I spent a summer working in a fishing village. Up every morning before dawn to work in the boats, and in bed every night after midnight. It was glorious." 

"Only you would consider that glorious." Darien rolled his head around and fidgeted, trying to find a position where none of his muscles could complain. 

Hobbes took pity on his friend. "You know, I did learn the ancient Inuit art of massage..." 

"Inuit massage?" 

"Yes, all we need is some fish oil or whale lard." 

"Oh, darn. I used up the last of my whale lard yesterday." 

Hobbes was not to be deterred, however. "I know Claire bought you some massage oils for Christmas." 

"You, you do?" Darien couldn't keep his voice from cracking. 

"Sure. She got some for everyone. She said she thought it might help us be a well-oiled machine. Personally, I think she needs to get out of the Keep more often." 

"Even Eberts?" 

"Yes. Now, where did you put the oils?" 

Darien was so trapped in mental images of Eberts rubbing oil over his naked body that he completely missed Hobbes searching through his apartment for the oils.   
 

* * *

  


Hobbes was trashing Darien's apartment looking for the oils. So far, he'd tried the bathroom, under the bed (he really didn't want to know why there was a box of used Chia Pets under the mattress), and around the "entertainment center." He went into the kitchen to grab another beer before he started in on the closet. His hand brushed aside a Costco-sized bottle of catsup while searching for the beer, which revealed the bottles of massage oils. "Uh Fawkes?" 

Now a naked, oiled Eberts was calling his name. Darien shook his head and forced himself to think of something else. Anything else. He looked down. Beer! Beer is made from hops and... 

A hand waved in front of his eyes. "Earth to Fawkes." 

"Huh?" He looked up to see Hobbes holding massage oils in both hands. 

"Take off your shirt and pants and lay on your stomach on the bed." 

"Exc... Excuse me?" Darien's eyebrows shot straight up. 

"Ancient Inuit massage, my friend" Hobbes said. "Now, do you want to smell like vanilla, sandalwood, or almond?"   
 

* * *

  


This day was getting more and more surreal. At this point, Darien had almost convinced himself that he was in some odd VR world. From manual labor to a greased Eberts, if this wasn't a dream or virtual, this day was shaping up to be on his list of Top 10 Days to Forget. Then again, even if this was some sort of mind game, who was he to turn down a massage? 

Darien shrugged and stood up. His aching thigh muscles protested the movement. If he didn't know better, he'd think he was turning into an old man. Stray thoughts of the Official getting a massage tickled his mind, but Hobbes was talking again, so he was able to ignore the mental image.   
 

* * *

  


"What scent do you want?" 

"Whatever," Darien responded while pulling off his dirty T-shirt. 

"Sandalwood it is," Hobbes said. "Why did you put these in the fridge?" 

"Huh? Oh, I figured it would keep better." Darien kicked off his shoes and unzipped his pants, revealing well-worn blue boxers. 

For being a well-read con man, Darien sometimes thought in ways Hobbes didn't want to follow. He poured some of the oil into the palm of his hand and stood next to the bed. Darien had fallen cross-ways on the bed, so all Hobbes could reach easily was his head and feet. "Hey, partner. You need to move." 

The "murph" and body flopping with very little actual movement told Hobbes he'd have to climb onto the bed. Well, he mused to himself, in Alaska we didn't have massage tables either. He kicked off his shoes, and started on the area he could reach, Darien's feet. 

The warm oil in his hand helped Hobbes work out the tenseness in Darien's feet and calves. Hobbes had never had the chance before to notice, but Darien took awfully good care of his feet. He unconsciously rubbed the top of his left foot against his right leg, trying to remember the last time he trimmed his nails. 

While thinking about his own daily regimen, Hobbes drizzled some more oil on Darien's legs. A shocked gasp from the bed caught his attention. "Huh?" Hobbes looked at what he was holding. Oh, he chuckled to himself. "Well, if you hadn't kept it in the fridge..." 

"Murph, s'cold," was Darien's well-spoken reply. 

Hobbes muttered under his breath about big babies while warming the oil on Darien's legs with his hands. He braced himself with one knee against the edge of the bed while rubbing up his partner's thighs. Darien would always be the lean, wiry one, but Hobbes had no idea how he could have gotten so knotted up. It felt as if he was massaging a rock garden, not someone's legs. 

Humming to himself, Hobbes knelt on the bed near Darien's feet so he could more easily tackle the knots. He knew he could get a tiny, itty bit obsessed with things, and right now he was focusing on the muscle knots. 

More sedate murph noises, and an infrequent snore, from Fawkes told Hobbes he was hitting the right spots. 

When Hobbes was ready to start on Darien's back, he straddled his partner's hips and grabbed the oil. The container had warmed up, so he drizzled a bit straight on to the small of his back. With the heels of his hands, Hobbes pushed into Darien's muscles. 

Hobbes let his mind wander. Alaska had been an amazing time. He'd learned a lot about himself during the late-night massage sessions. 

He leaned forward to do some long stokes up Darien's back to his shoulders. Darien's back was much smoother than Hobbes expected. Not that he expected it to be a scarred mess. But, having been trained on backs scarred from years living in the world's worst weather, he never really considered how smooth a man's skin could be. 

Hobbes continued to rub up and down. It was apparent from the snores that Darien was fast asleep. Having worked out the worst knots in Darien's back, Hobbes' strokes became softer. His fingers trailed over Darien's shoulder blades and down his spine. They grazed the top edge of Darien's boxers and up his sides. 

Darien mumbled something and smiled that sleepy smile that those lost in happy dreams smile. He wiggled his hips slightly under Hobbes, then started snoring again. 

Hobbes was lost for a moment. He shook his head as if that would clear it. He had many fantasies that could be played out right now, but Darien was too tired to make a decision that could change their relationship. He sighed, and leaned down to brush a light kiss across his partner's forehead. Darien mumbled happily again. 

Knowing it was time to go for today, Hobbes climbed off the bed, and covered Darien with a sheet. He washed his hands in the kitchen before leaving. "Good night, my friend. Sweet dreams." 

 


End file.
